


Cupcakes and Grandkids

by oldmountainsoul



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Crack, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Family Reunions, Fluff and Crack, Future Fic, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Growing Old, Growing Old Together (Ish), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 12:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmountainsoul/pseuds/oldmountainsoul
Summary: "We're supposed to have... cupcakes on big days at work and... grandkids! How's that going to look if you're living like you're 25 forever?"Turns out Carmilla revamping didn't change much of how her and Laura's life together was going to look after all.Mostly just a fluffy, pretty-much-crack excuse for me to write the hilarious idea of Carmilla being a grandma to a college student while still looking 25.Set some forty happy, sappy years after the events of the movie.





	Cupcakes and Grandkids

I opened my eyes slowly, woken up by the soft whistling coming from the kitchen. I shook my head and smiled in spite of myself. 

 

_ Some things never change.  _

 

Even now that she was pushing seventy, Laura was still the early riser of the two of us, I mused as I rolled out of bed. A fact which was unsurprising, considering my whole being a creature of the night and all, but even during my relatively brief stints with mortality, I’d never been a morning person. Being a vampire again just gave me more of an excuse to sleep til 5PM.

 

“You know what day it is today, Carm?” Laura said excitedly in a sing-song voice when she heard me pad into the kitchen.

 

“No, creampuff, I totally forgot the occasion you’ve been planning and talking about nonstop for weeks.” I chuckled and affectionately rolled my eyes, reaching out to ruffle her now-mostly gray hair.

 

We’d settled into a routine over the years, one that had only been slightly adjusted by my revamping, and a routine that we stuck to even on a day like today. It was the forty-eighth anniversary of the day Laura had stopped the apocalypse and we’d all crawled out of the pit together. 

 

What was formerly known as my ‘re-birthday’ had instead morphed into an occasion where Laura gathered all our friends and family together for dinner and a family reunion of sorts. 

 

“And you’re going to pick up Damien at uni today, right?” Laura prompted, and I pressed a kiss to my wife’s forehead as I accepted the proffered mug of hemo soy-spiked coffee. 

 

“Of course,” I scoffed. “As if I’d miss an opportunity to embarrass the little monster in front of all of his friends.” 

 

Damien was our oldest grandchild, and a freshman this year at the same university that I was a tenured philosophy professor. (He made a point of avoiding the humanities buildings if at all possible, though he was occasionally bribed/threatened by his various aunts, uncles, siblings, and parents into running messages or presents to me at work regardless, much to our collective amusement. Honestly, if the boy hadn’t made such a big deal out of his embarrassment, they wouldn’t have had him running gopher so often. But he was a Hollis-Karnstein through and through, and we tended towards the dramatic.)

 

“More like to make sure they all know that he’s related to a bonafide vampire who, and I quote, ‘would not hesitate to feed them their own spleens.’ Just keep the death threats to a minimum this time, okay?” 

 

“Fine,” I huffed out with an exaggerated sigh. “Am I not allowed to have any fun at all?” 

 

“Fun, yes. Potentially getting into legal trouble and/or scaring off all of his friends, no.” 

 

I scoffed at that. “If they were really his friends they wouldn’t be scared off in the first place. I was actively trying to get rid of the dimwit squad when we were at Silas, and no amount of murder seemed to do the trick. And that was  _ before  _ Xena started making headway with her whole vampire activism spiel.” 

 

“Carm…” Laura warned, and waved a wooden spoon at me in what I’m sure  _ she _ thought was a threatening way. 

 

“I make no promises, cupcake.”

 

Laura tutted her disapproval. 

 

“...But I will try.” 

 

Laura grinned and made a poor imitation of the sound of a whip cracking. (I made a mental note to give LaFontaine an extra hard time at dinner that night for teaching her that joke all those years ago.) 

 

“Good,” Laura said, just as a timer on her phone went off. “Oh! My muffins should be cool enough for transport now!” she exclaimed, and darted to the kitchen table. She’d kept up her yoga and krav maga over the years to keep her spry, and with much prodding from Perry, Sherman, and our children, she’d even started inching toward the more green and leafy end of the spectrum and away from her previous diet of cookies and grape soda. 

 

She’d gotten her happy, healthy, normal mortal life, just like she’d always wanted. Just like I would always want for her. 

 

Laura practically skipped back, proudly carrying a saran-wrapped plate of bran muffins. “Make sure these make it to Damien’s dorm, okay? I got the recipe from Perry, and they’re supposed to be packed full of nutrients! She was worried he’d take after my college eating habits so she taught me to make them.” 

 

“I know, cupcake,” I said with a smile. Just because I’d been busy grading the papers of idiotic and pretentious grad students didn’t mean I hadn’t been paying attention. Ginger Two’s kitchen hysterics weren’t exactly quiet, and the apartment wasn’t  _ that  _ big. “I’ll be sure his scrawny little ass knows all the trouble you went to.” 

 

“Not in so many words, I hope,” Laura quipped with a peck to my cheek. “Now go, drive safe, and don’t either of you dare be late for dinner at my dad’s house!”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” 

 

****

 

I parked outside Damien’s dorm that he had  _ insisted  _ on living in despite the fact that he was born and raised in the same city where he went to school, but I suppose he’d inherited Laura’s fiercely independent streak. I was just grateful that streak hadn’t extended to attending a university run by a vampire cult in eastern Europe; though I’d admit the odds of history repeating itself in that respect were infinitesimally low. 

 

I grabbed my phone to text Damien that I was here, only to be interrupted by a wolf whistle as I got out of the car. I simply flipped the bird in the whistler’s direction. (I could dismember and/or have the imbecile expelled when there wasn’t the risk of running late to a family dinner.)

 

Damien, who apparently had been waiting on the steps outside for me, had other ideas, though. He was up in arms in moments, racing across the parking lot and full on tackling a frat boy twice his size with a shout of “THAT’S MY GRANDMA YOU SICK FUCK!” 

 

Well then. There was no need for any effort on my part if my grandson was determined to embarrass himself. 

 

If there had been any doubt of Damien’s heritage as a Hollis, it would have certainly been dispelled at that moment. Laura’s “fight me” gene was alive and well in this one. And he had apparently kept up with the krav maga lessons that Sherman had insisted on, from the looks of the hold he currently had the frat boy in. 

 

I sauntered across the parking lot and tried not to laugh, but I allowed myself a few slow claps as I got closer. 

 

“As fun as this hilarious attempt at chivalry is to watch, shortstack, the cupcake will never let me hear the end of it if we’re late to dinner because you got into a fistfight.” 

 

Damien’s expression turned sheepish as he looked up from where he had bro-for-brains pinned to the ground. “Does it really count as a fight if it’s ridiculously one-sided, Gran?” 

 

I huffed out a surprised, breathy laugh. I always did have a soft spot for snark. “No, but I doubt the campus police would agree. Besides, Laura made something for you that we should drop off at your dorm before we go.” 

 

We’d agreed shortly after Damien was born that when he started talking, I would be Gran, and Laura would be Grammy. 

 

“Fine,” Damien said with an eyeroll as he grudgingly rolled off the other boy, but kept ahold of his arm as they both got to their feet.

 

“What the fuck? Let go of me you little--” the frat boy started.

 

“Let me see your student ID first, asshole,” Damien interrupted, holding out his free hand. “You just sexually harassed a professor, and you bet your sweet ass I’m going to report you for that. It’s 2064, dipshit. That’s not how you treat people.” 

 

The frat boy glared, first at Damien and then at me, but he grudgingly reached into his pocket, grumbling all the while. 

 

“Thank you,” Damien said politely, then let go of the other boy’s arm so he could grab his phone and snap a picture of the ID. He tossed the ID back to him, then gave the frat bro a jaunty wave. 

 

“Now that’s done with, I’ve got places to be with hopefully fewer neanderthals. See you never!” he called, and offered me his arm. 

 

“Really?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. 

 

“It’s what I do for Grammy!” Damien protested. “You know you love me.” 

 

“That I do, pint-size,” I admitted, reaching up to ruffle his dark hair and then accepting his arm. He looked more like his other parents, but Damien still had managed to inherit Laura’s honey brown eyes. And her shortness. 

 

Damien scoffed as he walked me to the car. “‘Pint-size,’ Gran? I’m two inches taller than you.” 

 

“And you’re still a shortstack.” 

 

“Ugh.” Damien rolled his eyes. Truly, he was a kid after my own heart. “What’d Grammy have you drop off for me, anyways?” 

 

“These,” I said, grabbing the plate out of the passenger seat. 

 

“Cupcakes?” he asked excitedly. 

 

“Bran muffins, shortstack,” I replied, passing him the plate. 

 

“Ew, gross.” 

 

“Perry’s recipe.”

 

“Okay, less gross,” he acquiesced. “I’ll just run these up to my dorm then be right back, okay?” 

 

I grunted in the affirmative and got back in the car. I had no problem avoiding the sweaty pit of disease known as on-campus housing. 

 

Damien was back a few minutes later, sliding into his seat and buckling up.

 

“It’s at grampa’s this year, right?” he asked. “Who all’s gonna be there?” 

 

“Yeah, Sherman insisted. And  _ everyone  _ will be there, or your Grammy will make sure there’s hell to pay.” I snorted. “She’s not let anyone miss it since before you were born, shortstack. She’s not about to start now.” 

 

Damien nodded sagely. “True. Grammy’s even scarier than you when she wants to be. No offense, Gran.” 

 

My lips quirked up in a smile. “None taken. There’s more than a few reasons I avoid getting on her bad side.” 

 

“Because…” Damien glanced over at me, a shit eating grin on his face as he tried to mimic a whip cracking noise. 

 

I shot him my iciest glare in response, but he just laughed. Damn Hollises. They enjoyed the soft spot I had for them all entirely too much. 

 

“I’ll be sure to make sure Betty Crocker knows you’re not allowed anywhere near LaFontaine in next year’s seating chart,” I muttered. “Almost fifty fucking years, and they still haven’t let the joke die.” 

 

Damien shook his head, his grin getting wider. “They mean well, Gran. It’s a compliment… sort of. Like a testament to how disgustingly sweet you and Grammy are together.” 

 

“Yeah yeah. Save it, half-pint,” I scoffed, but my heart wasn’t in it and the kid knew it.

 

“Aw man, I’ve been demoted from pint-size already?”

 

“You’re lucky I’m not demoting you to Hollis Six.” 

 

“You number the Hollises? I thought you just did that with the ginger twins. And why am I number six? I should at least be number four!” 

 

“Only when you’re being little shits. Which you are. Speaking of which, they have definitely been demoted to Ginger Two. Maybe even Ginger Three if the Beanstalk behaves today.” 

 

“But Aunt Danny hasn’t been ginger for like, half a century?” 

 

I shrugged. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

 

“You mean she’ll always be a ginger in her lack of soul?” Damien asked.

 

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Obviously LaFontaine’s been indoctrinating you with early twenty-first century memes. They’re definitely Ginger Three today.” 

 

“That’s cold, Gran,” Damien snickered.

 

“I’m literally cold-blooded, Hollis Six.” 

 

“Hey!” 

 

I rolled my eyes and gave him an exaggerated sigh as we finally pulled up in front of Sherman’s house, where a few cars were already parked on the street. “Fine, I’ll bump you up to Hollis Five if you can get Ginger Three to singe their eyebrows off again tonight.” 

 

“Deal. They’re bound to it on their own, anyways. No wonder they think you’re a softie.” Damien grinned and stuck out his hand to shake on it. 

 

I arched an eyebrow at that, but took my grandson’s hand, squeezing just a tad tighter than was strictly necessary. “Somebody forgot he’s on thin ice, hmm?”

 

“Ow!” 

 

“You’re fine. And don’t forget it goes both ways, shortstack. Keep this up and I’m knocking you down to Hollis Seven,” I said, finally letting go. 

 

I awkwardly gave him a pat on the back. “Now let’s get inside before Laura or your great-grandpa have an aneurysm, hmm?” 

 

“Yes ma’am,” Damien said quickly, and he rubbed his hand a bit before he offered his arm to me again and we headed inside. 

 

Dinner with the dimwit squad was waiting for us, after all. 

  
  



End file.
